


Fall into place

by Tyelperintal



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bathtubs, First Time, M/M, Restraints, if that makes sense, in theory every Celebrimbor fic can use the 'Celebrimbor makes bad life choices' tag, it's not quite smut it's just smutty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28944999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyelperintal/pseuds/Tyelperintal
Summary: Celebrimbor cracked open an eye, and sighed. It was not a servant standing there, and he thought with a tinge of regret that he was no longer even surprised by that. “To find me here,” he greeted lazily, lethargic from the steam of the bathwater, “you would have needed to pass no less than three sets of closed doors. That is usually an indication that someone desires privacy.”---Celebrimbor takes a bath. Annatar thinks privacy is a suggestion. A relationship is negotiated.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 7
Kudos: 53





	Fall into place

Without the enchantments, the water in the bathtub would have gone cold a long time ago.

It was past time that Celebrimbor should have climbed out and pursued some other, more useful task; his hair and skin were clean, the warmth had finally penetrated bone-deep and gnawed away the numb feeling that had taken hold of him earlier, and the tracery on the ceiling was beginning to feel too familiar after so much staring at it.

And yet Celebrimbor allowed himself very few indulgences, so just this once, what harm was there if he stayed?

His eyes were closed when he heard the creak of door hinges.

There were servants, of course, that had permission to enter and leave in accordance with their duties. Servants that brought food when he requested it, and even when he did not, because he was prone to forget, and servants that swept away the dust from the shelves and the floors, and servants that gathered and washed his garments. It would have been understandable if one of them had presumed his bath was finished, and gone to clean up.

Celebrimbor cracked open an eye, and sighed. It was not a servant standing there, and he thought with a tinge of regret that he was no longer even surprised by that. “To find me here,” he greeted lazily, lethargic from the steam of the bathwater, “you would have needed to pass no less than three sets of closed doors. That is usually an indication that someone desires privacy.”

Annatar inclined his head, more base acknowledgement than an attempt at apology. “I was concerned that you might have drowned. Perhaps my cousin Ossë created a whirlpool and sucked you under. You’re certainly taking your time.”

Celebrimbor considered that, and made a face. At least by invoking Ossë’s name, Annatar had provided the first real incentive to leave the water; memories of pitching hulls and roiling black waves made the elf’s stomach flip, even though the calm and steaming bathwater with its rosewater scent could not have been more different from the churning sea in his memory.

“So you have seen that I have not drowned. Why are you still here?”

Annatar hummed, and leveled a stern gaze in Celebrimbor’s direction. Too piercing; knife scoring marble. “I wanted to speak with you. Why else? Tyelperinkë, if I did not know you better, I would almost think you are being shy. Does nakedness bother you?”

Celebrimbor’s cheeks were already rouged from the steam, luckily, so the question did not cause a noticeable flush to arise. But the effect might still have been there to Annatar’s eyes, and he blinked owlishly at the Maia. “In the wrong time and place, it might.”

“And this?” Annatar made a small gesture with his hand, indicating the room. “Is this the wrong time and place?”

“I am bathing,” Celebrimbor reminded him.

“Indeed. Then I think we may proceed without issue.” Annatar busied himself by picking up the jar of bath salts and examining it, turning the crystal over in his hands and opening the lid to sample the aroma. “I thought we could discuss reassigning some of the apprenticeships. You proposed sending the skilled students into Hadhodrond, and I am in favor of the sharing of expertise; but I think their skills are better put to use here. If you send the youngest students instead, they may broaden their skills under dwarven supervision…”

Celebrimbor bit back a sigh; must they discuss students during his bath? “Why not compromise and send some of each? In the course of a year they may swap places, so long as they are willing. We should discuss it with them either way. Is that all you wished to talk about?”

“No.” Annatar set down the bath salts and found Celebrimbor’s hair comb, now toying with that instead. “There are a number of other matters that need your attention. But I am concerned you are not in the mood.”

A bemused smile fell on Celebrimbor’s face, and he peered up at the Maia. “I am no warrior, but my body gets weary from time to time—and this is one of those times.”

Annatar considered that for a moment. But after setting down the comb, he approached and came to kneel beside the bathtub, angling his head so a lock of golden hair came tumbling over his shoulder. Lifting his arm and letting the extra fabric of his sable sleeve pool by his elbow, he reached over the rim of the tub and grabbed Celebrimbor’s arm by the wrist. The contact sent a shiver up the length of Celebrimbor’s arm, despite the forge-heat of Annatar’s touch, and he angled his head away, desperately focusing on the carving in the lintel over the door.

“It is a miracle, isn’t it?” Annatar narrated, his thumb tracing one blue vein that was visible under the skin of Celebrimbor’s wrist. “Such a simple movement, to move your arm from there to here. To move even a single finger.” The movement of his thumb continued, as if to emphasize the point; Celebrimbor did not trust himself to take the breath of air he needed in case some pitiable sound might escape him.

“But if something were out of place, it would not be possible,” Annatar continued. “A misplaced bone in your shoulder, or a ligament too short in your elbow…” He tugged on Celebrimbor’s arm to extend it as he spoke. “You Eldar give it such little thought, but the craftsmanship of the _hröa_ is exquisitely beautiful.”

The heat of the water might have finally run its course; Celebrimbor felt dizzy. “Go fetch my robe,” he requested, hating the way his voice audibly wavered mid-sentence.

Annatar gave a bemused snort of laughter before he released his grip. “And do what with it?”

“Bring it to me.” Celebrimbor drew his arms in, folding them in front of his chest. Annatar’s touch felt like it had left an imprint; if he looked, would he find a welt in his skin?

“I am not your servant.” Annatar drew himself to his feet and drifted a few paces away before eyeing Celebrimbor over his shoulder.

“You come and go from my private quarters with the familiarity of one, so now you may earn your keep,” Celebrimbor challenged. “Bring me the robe.”

Annatar was quiet.

In retrospect, that should not have been mistaken for acquiescence.

Before, Annatar had taken care not to let the silken sleeves of his garment dip into the bathwater. His concern was evidently forgotten, however, when he returned to the bath’s edge and reached over the side, one arm supporting Celebrimbor’s waist while the other looped beneath his knees. Before Celebrimbor could protest, he was lifting him out of the water and holding him against his chest, droplets pouring over the stone floor.

If the steam had been enough to make Celebrimbor dizzy before, the sudden movement sent him reeling, and his arms flew up to brace around Annatar’s neck. His first worry was that the Maia intended to drop him as retribution for the demand, but the worry gave way soon enough.

“Put me down,” he gasped as it became clear that Annatar had no such intentions.

Annatar did not answer. He merely walked towards the door, unbothered by the elf’s weight, and breezed into the adjoining bedchamber. He navigated the room with familiarity, around the bookshelves and desks that he used at his leisure, before coming to a halt in front of Celebrimbor’s bed. And with surprising ease, he lowered him there on top of the sheets, before straightening again and turning on his heel.

It had never been in Celebrimbor’s interests to pray, but as he lay in stunned stillness, Manwë’s name flickered through his mind for the sake of breath in his lungs again.

Had he genuinely upset Annatar, he wondered?

A shiver crossed Celebrimbor’s skin once again, and he found himself longing for the silk robe he had left in the other room. Coyly making demands had left him wanting in the end, and he supposed there was meant to be a lesson in that, from Annatar’s point of view. After all, Annatar took his role as tutor seriously, and he was prone to slipping in lessons where they were least expected.

As he lay there, Celebrimbor also considered their earlier conversation about there being a right time and place for nakedness; now, in his own bedroom, it shouldn’t have been making his cheeks and ears burn, for the connotations were different. Perhaps there would be implications of a more intimate kind, if Annatar was anything but a tutor and a confidante, if the Maia felt anything but a kind of distant academic interest in the beauty of an Eldarin body.

Annatar himself was beautiful, too, and Celebrimbor wanted to believe his appreciation of that beauty was similarly informed by a care for aesthetics. It did not need to be anything else. It …

It had crossed his mind before that Annatar’s beauty was desirable in a way that had nothing to do with envy, and he had tried to block the thoughts before they blossomed into anything dangerous. There was no chance he would find his curiosity reciprocated, and so it was best not to even entertain it as a possibility. 

Luckily—or was it unluckily?—footsteps returned before Celebrimbor could sink too deep into his thoughts. They came padding across the carpeted stone floor, and a second later, Celebrimbor felt fabric pooling over his legs as something was thrown into a heap in his lap.

The robe.

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor said mildly as he busied himself with unfolding it, at least glad for the distraction. He risked a glance over at Annatar; the Maia’s expression was unreadable, of course, as he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, looming over Celebrimbor’s bedside.

Once he was covered by embroidered forest green and pale mint, Celebrimbor felt less exposed, if not exactly lordly with the wet strands of his dark hair falling limply over his shoulders, but his ease was short-lived as the pallet suddenly dipped beside him. For the third time, he felt his breath being robbed as Annatar’s elegant ring-adorned fingers alighted beneath his chin, tilting his head in his direction.

“Apologize,” Annatar requested. The coating of his words was honey, but there were needles underneath.

Celebrimbor’s tongue crept out to make a pass over his lips, and the apology nearly slipped out before he stopped himself. It was a moment’s inspiration—just a second’s reflection that if disobedience had resulted in him being carried in Annatar’s arms, then he might be able to leverage a little more for curiosity’s sake if he teased this out. If he said no? Did Annatar have means of persuading him? His pride probably would not see him storming out before he got the apology he wanted, which left room for some interesting possibilities.

“Or what?” Celebrimbor challenged. “If I refuse, do you leave me to the privacy I was previously enjoying?”

“Would you like that?” Annatar returned. Their faces had drawn imperceptibly closer with each question; Celebrimbor found himself aware of how there were mere inches between them now, and if he leaned forward just a little more, he’d taste rose-hued lips beneath his own.

“Or I could call a servant who listens to me.” Celebrimbor smirked, though in truth, he’d have found such a choice morally lacking. He had a good relationship with the servants who managed his household while he attended the various duties that the city and the guild demanded of him, never making undue demands of them or putting them in uncomfortable situations. So it made the threat an entirely empty one, and Annatar would have known it.

Annatar’s molten gaze was equally fixed on Celebrimbor’s mouth; with his gaze angled down, dark lashes framed the sharp angles of his cheekbones. “Do you mistake my presence here as entirely service to you, Tyelperinquar?”

Celebrimbor hesitated, considering—in the arrangement that ought to have gone both ways, it was easier from his own perspective to consider what he gained from Annatar’s guidance, and not what the Maia received in return.

Annatar chose that moment to strike. A gentle brush of lips at first, but that may have only been a test to see if Celebrimbor recoiled before something more confident took its place.

Annatar’s lips were dry, but hot and insistent, and Celebrimbor felt him easily melting into it as a thrill travelled down his spine, halfway born out of surprise. The satin-lined garment slipped from his shoulder as Annatar pressed closer, his hand still cupping Celebrimbor’s jaw and holding him in place. Unsure of where else to go, Celebrimbor’s fingers twisted into the bedsheets beside him as he leaned into the touches.

He had kissed before; there had been curiosity-driven fumbles in Nargothrond and some desperate and affirmation-seeking experiments when the Noldor had first begun to pour into Lindon as Beleriand fell. The experiences had not left enough of an impression for Celebrimbor to want to pursue them again and again, and in fact he usually shied away from any close contact with others. There was a certain wrongness to it even now, and yet a thrill blossomed in the pit of Celebrimbor’s stomach nonetheless.

Maybe it was a twisted kind of vanity. Annatar was exquisitely beautiful, and as a Maia, he ought to have been untouchable. That an ancient spirit should desire this from an elf, and one whose reputation was not unblemished … something in the back of Celebrimbor’s mind made a weak protest, questioning why he thought he was worthy of this, but it was not hard to suppress it while there were more preoccupying matters.

Annatar’s hand travelled to Celebrimbor’s neck in a slow caress, and then to his shoulder, before he pushed Celebrimbor back into the pillows. Celebrimbor parted his lips to let the kiss deepen, but even as Annatar settled against his chest, he drew back until Celebrimbor was reaching up to chase another brush of skin against skin, unwilling to let the indulgence end so quickly.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Annatar chided.

His question…? Ah…

A strange detail that Celebrimbor had discovered was that charming wasn’t much different to arguing; choosing the right words was a skill that some had and some did not. Celebrimbor himself didn’t resort to flattery—but it slipped often into Annatar’s speech, and it was not hard to mimic it.

“You serve me so well that it’s easy to be misled.”

A smile flitted around the corners of Annatar’s mouth.

There was a belted sash around Celebrimbor’s waist, which he had only loosely secured when Annatar had brought him the robe from the other room. Annatar’s hand found it and tugged on the end, drawing it in and wrapping it around his fingers. With the other hand, he sought out one of Celebrimbor’s wrists and pulled it upwards, pinning it above his head against the pillows, then went to pry the fingers of his other hand away from the sheets and forced that arm to join the first. The position left Celebrimbor feeling exposed, especially with the robe now falling open, but he gave only minimal resistance.

Annatar brought the sash to meet Celebrimbor’s wrists, and began to wrap it around until they were tied together. The knot was not tight; it was folded over only once, and if Celebrimbor had wanted to fight it, he could have wriggled free. But once satisfied with his work, Annatar dipped down for another taste of Celebrimbor’s mouth, slower and deeper this time than the first.

Celebrimbor’s head was beginning to spin when he pulled away, and his gasp for breath was audible.

“So the student thinks they can master their teacher,” Annatar sighed. His hands had drawn back, and long fingers made a lazy brush along Celebrimbor’s side, along the lines of his ribcage. “You are wrong; you serve me at least as much as I serve you.”

Despite Celebrimbor’s position, trapped under the weight of Annatar’s body above him with his hands tied and with his skin flushed, he still found himself breathing out a little laugh. “Spoken as expected, from an emissary of the Valar.”

Annatar’s fingers stilled their tracery. “Let us not bring other masters into this,” he suggested. “Unless you still keep their customs? Do you believe if I take you here tonight, the Lord of the Wind will consider it the lawful consummation of a marriage?”

The question was practically sobering, save for one detail. Annatar’s intentions should have been clear, from the touches and the kisses, but what if it had all been meant in jest? Teasing gestures to capture Celebrimbor off-guard amidst their petty arguing? “Do you intend to do that?”

“Do you want me to?”

Celebrimbor leaned upwards again to try and answer the question with a kiss, but Annatar was quicker. His hand alighted at the base of the elf’s neck with light pressure, and from there, he trailed upwards, his thumb sweeping up the curve of his throat. In contrast to the heat and the softness of his hand, the rings on his fingers felt cold and sharp.

It was a gesture that seemed to demand that he answer carefully.

“I want as much as you are willing to give me,” Celebrimbor answered quietly.

Their eyes met, cold silver to molten gold, until Annatar released his grip in acquiescence, moving his fingers to toy with the hem of the robe instead. A kiss to the corner of Celebrimbor’s mouth; it was almost tender, save for the fact that Annatar had angled their hips together and began a slow rocking motion against him, and the friction made Celebrimbor eagerly press against him.

It was strange; Celebrimbor had demanded the robe, and yet now he wished it was gone—wished it could be lying in a heap on the floor entangled with Annatar’s, or forgotten entirely in the next room where it wouldn’t be in the way. But he had demanded it, and even submission to Annatar’s touches and kisses wasn’t enough to overcome his stubbornness completely.

It would stay on, then—including the repurposed sash.

**Author's Note:**

> Annatar: [says something sinister]  
> Celebrimbor: this is completely normal and I accept it :]


End file.
